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<title>an introspection (into the end of the world) by FrankIin</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27515362">an introspection (into the end of the world)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankIin/pseuds/FrankIin'>FrankIin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Call the Midwife</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:34:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>405</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27515362</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankIin/pseuds/FrankIin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>patsy on remembrance and the fickle thing about secrets coming out</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Delia Busby/Patsy Mount</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>an introspection (into the end of the world)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Rumours are not foreign. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They permeate every walk of your life. From the dirt between young toes, the crisp linoleum under smart pumps, the snow under plimsolls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You’re a mystery to most, a fable to others, an abstract to all except the one who regards you simply as Home. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is much the same for you despite the battlegrounds you take each day. Dig trenches in your heart, hide her there. Guns behind your teeth, protect her with silver tipped lies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Most of your life has been war, a prisoner of it even upon liberation. The Americans lifted shackles but you were never free. A year back in England and slight rebellions waged deep, internal. The main coup happened at sixteen. Cherries and cigarettes tasted like gunpowder on her lips. You vowed surrender after rosaries struck your cheek but your white flag burned nuclear when Delia stepped off the train. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beneath your skin, the soldiers march. They chart unknown territory with weapons raised, hold back with caution. The enemy, of which is Lust, always ambushes, always ends victorious. Delia kisses you, addictive, poppy fields, and the perils are worth it each time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Throughout Nonnatus, a quiet understanding dances through the bunker. Hong Kong had ruined you, your barracks destroyed. There was no opportunity for surrender for the poppy fields had grown with a reckless abandon. There was only loss. A lost battle. A lost war. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Each Sunday you would linger far from the chapel caught in your own Remembrance of a life filled with secrets. Your comrades and Sisters never mourned you, despite an assumption you’d feared, for they did not perceive you lost to Lust. A victim of time, perhaps, and maybe that’s where you had been wrong your whole life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Opioid seeds in Flanders Fields are your appetite and the true enemy of the war was Time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It acquiesced you, when Sister Monica Joan with her frail, fragile fingers had entwined with your own, scarred and scared, and implored you celebrate VE Day with all of your heart. Because Love and Lust had victored over Time. Perhaps tensions and rebellions would grumble occasionally but, how she had been adamant, you had still won by way of laying beside your sweetheart each evening. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Remaining in Poplar, in Nonnatus, with private quarters and Delia, your comrades armed with compassion and respect, had allowed you reprieve from wielding your pistol. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And that’s how the revolution begins. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>short little drabble.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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